


You need low-tar

by StarryNightFire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eventual Anthea/Mycroft Holmes, Light Angst, Mentioned Eurus Holmes, Minor Anthea/Mycroft Holmes, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings, Mycroft Holmes-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:42:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24530080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarryNightFire/pseuds/StarryNightFire
Summary: Mycroft Holmes embarks on a journey where he found something else rather than disappointment lurking.orWho was there for Antartica after Sherrinford.
Relationships: Anthea & Mycroft Holmes
Comments: 10
Kudos: 20





	You need low-tar

**Author's Note:**

> I just like the idea of at least one person who doesn't view Mycroft Holmes as a failure. This could be read as implied Mythea, or just a really beautiful friendship, your choice. I might write one about Mycroft & Greg also.

**You need low-tar**

**\- StarryNightFire-**

_Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, they belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (except for Anthea) and are adopted babies of Moffat and Gatiss (including Anthea)._

“You don’t smoke.” His obvious statement hung in the air while he dithers, the cigarette rolling between fingers. London damp with the winter breeze and stank with dirty alleyways, and he longs to get back to the black sedan, away from the humid air. Away from the awkward issue at least, if not away from her.

“The habit started in Cambridge, if I remembered correctly.” He brought the pack of Winston one out, casted a longing look before placing the cigarette neatly back in. He was never the sort that made a fool of himself trying to fill the silence, he just thought his trivial compulsion deserved a story. Or rather that she deserved some sort of truth from his past, an anecdote to calm her silent fury with him.

“In order to form connections, one must be within the social circle to fit in, so I chose the club that values politicians and smokes fancy pipes.” He chuckled, allowing the memories of the fireplace and the smell of newspaper ink engulf him, pulling away from the depressing scenery of the dark Thames. “Sherlock chose the underdog kids, much to my dismay, but maybe I shouldn’t be the judge.” He leaned on the rusty rail, momentarily forgot about his white new cuff. ‘He turned out just fine, did he not?’ he wanted to say, ‘you turned out a mess’ was perhaps their mutual thought.

“I stopped, naturally. Prefer to die some way else more reasonably.” Ironically enough, he pulled the pack from his pocket again and drew out the same cigarette. He let the story pause as he tried to light the cig between his lips, left hand around to cover the flame. It flickered weakly, a tiny orange flame that wasn’t bright enough to illuminate the river in front of them. The flame never had a chance to light his cigarette however, when the slightest breeze passed by, and the unsteady flame shut down.

“Started it again when Uncle Rudy passed away. Right after the first renowned OD of the little brother.” The words muffle with his teeth still holding down the cig. His right hand worked to ignite the fire with his thumb over the gear while his left curled up into a fist in his pants pocket. Only a bad addiction awakens by overload of sentiments, he surmised. 

“Important man, Rudy. Too important to have a funeral.” He murmured, thinking about his own ‘important’ fate dangling dangerously over the edge. Mr Rudolphus Holmes didn’t have an official burial wasn’t because he’s too special, although he was indeed rather vital to the country. One could muse over the topic of who has the higher level of authority between Mycroft and Rudolphus over biscuit. But if one has an excessive amount of time during that tea break, could also ponder over the thought of who was more alone. The man who his sister in-law banned from all the family events because he putted her only daughter in an asylum, had no one to visit his grave but his only apprentice; or the apprentice that followed in that obscure and gloomy footstep of his uncle, who was now hated by the same family’s members for lying about that same only daughter’s demise. Both lived in private solitary, whom death was and would be mourned but not missed. Both who had a glimpse of Eurus’ supremacy before anybody else. Yet one died of a heart failure, while one doomed to survive with a bloody conscience and responsibilities.

He tried again edgily, hoping to have a smoke before facing whatever waited for him tomorrow, or even just to get past tonight. The moment he closes his eyes, he knows the blames would catch up with his mind. Did uncle Rudy dream about the same thing?

“He was powerful also. Nothing ever went wrong in Sherrinford when he was alive.” He shakes the lighter, quite impractically, and tried again. And again, and again. His thumb was starting to get numb, from the cold and striking the spark wheel. Each time, there’s some spark accompanied by a faint smell of gas, but no flame ignited. But with each spark, Eurus’s lifeless eyes with Mummy’s lively face emerged before his eyes, forcefully and vividly. He took the cig out with his shaky hand and crushed it, shoulder shaking with force. He threw his only lighter over the bridge railing. Down it went, sinking to the bottom, and so was the sanity remain in his mind. He took a lungful of air and let go a cry of pain, deep within the door he kept away for so long. She took a tenacious grip of his arm but did nothing to stop the next scream that tore through his vocal cord. It was the kind of scream that made your blood run cold, your hair stands at how beastly a human could be. He hadn’t screamed since the day Redbeard...Victor disappeared. No, he didn’t scream then, he screamed when his sister whispered in his ears ‘drowned pirate, Myc, drowned Redbeard’, with a tilt of her pigtail head, and the menacing drawl on his nickname. It was just too much, that day, and it’s too much, this night. As demented as it sounds, it would be rather comical to think that not being able to light a lighter made the Ice-Man loses his cool, than the amalgam of the helpless and fear he had locking in Eurus’s cell, or the repentant dread he felt on the bottom of his stomach under his mother’s glare.

“Go home, Andrea.” He said softly, when he could no longer scream, with the palm of his hand pressed against the burning eyes. He wanted to go home too, but he no longer knows if he could. Musgrave burned down, Mother and Father would not appreciate his presence in their country house, nor will John at 221b so late at night. Then there’s his lodgings, Pall Mall and the rural mansion, one filled with blood stained paintings and one with cold empty rooms. Where would he go that the Sherrinford memory won’t follow? “Just go home.” He repeated, voice more collected, expecting his final order to be followed. But who was he trying to kid? There’s no trail of authority left in him after this tiresome day or perhaps even the next wearisome weeks. 

“You’re not limited, you know?” And that remained the only response she gave him. He brought his attention back to her, for inside her pale balm, was a spare lighter with an enduring flame against the cold wind. She flinched at his outburst of unwanted agony then, but if she was repulsed by his aberration, there was no trace left on her face. He opened his own balm to a crunched-up cigarette, some tobacco escaped out of the crumbly paper. He lighted it up anyway, and gasps in the chemical, enraptured by the calming sensation that wash over him. How did Inspector Lestrade quitted such thing? How did he? 

“I failed them." A shaky sigh escaped. "Sherlock, Mummy, Daddy, Uncle Rudy, Mrs Trevor, Mrs...” On and on it went, a list of people he was unsuccessful to please. Andrea didn’t say a word, only a hum now and then to confirmed that she’s not leaving him alone tonight. His heart tightened with each names and life that he ruined, but syllables by syllables he says them, letting it sink down the Thames like the lighter he once had. 

“I was supposed to be the big brother; to watch over them; to fix them.” He said tartly between his drawl, and when bold enough, turned to look at Andrea. She was as relaxed as ever, staring straight ahead at the blinking lights of the city, and he was glad someone was there to stand in his place when he lost his composedness.

“But it was for the best.” He achieved a tone of arrogance, yet with the timid question hidden within. Disagree with him now, so he could see which side she’s on. Disagree with him now, so he could add another disappointment to his lengthy list. But no, she just smiled the saddest smile, truer than any smile she has given, and covered his free hand with her own. He couldn’t smile back, no matter how much appreciation he felt; but he did what he has never done before, he refused to recoil under the tender touch of affection given to him.

And so, the low-tar cigarette burned slowly in the dark silent night. With each inhale, the wind blows past ineffectively. With each exhale, a knot of guilt untangles itself.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Kudos and comments are very much appreciated. 
> 
> *** 
> 
> Keep calm and love Mycroft Holmes


End file.
